


Boulder

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Collars, Dark, Ficlet, Leashes, M/M, prisoner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the depths of his madness, Thorin reduces Bilbo down to a possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boulder

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The worst of it is that Smaug was right. Thorin’s gone _insane._

When he shifts in his throne, a little bit more of the silver chain slips over the edge, running, cold, down Bilbo’s shoulder. He shivers in its wake, adjusts his back—this hall was so _warm_ not long ago, when dragon fire was everywhere, but now the treasures against his skin feel like ice. All his clothes have been stripped away, his nice, comfy jacket with the fur lining, and the thick wool of his trousers. Now all that covers him are bits and pieces of elaborate jewelry, decked around him by the king under the mountain himself. Bilbo would rather wear his trousers than a thong of pearls, but apparently, he gave up his right to choose when he stole the Arkenstone. 

He didn’t really _steal_ it, exactly. He used it for good. But when Thorin discovered the deception... he wasn’t pleased.

Thorin seems to realize, belatedly, that Bilbo’s attempts to avoid the chain that binds him have taken him a step too far from the throne. Thorin’s thick fingers tighten around the ends, and he yanks it forward like a leash. The tight, gold collar around Bilbo’s throat jerks him to the side. He bashes into the edge of the throne and gasps in pain, wincing and ducking his head. The ornaments draped about his hair chime as they swing against one another. On his hands and knees at Thorin’s side, he feels more like a pet than a burglar, and for the first time since this all started, he not only misses his comfortable, safe hobbit hole, but he wish _all of this had never happened._

“They’ll find it, you know,” Thorin muses. His voice is deep, rumbling, not unlike the dragon he’s replaced. It hardly sounds like _him_ at all. Bilbo doesn’t ask what ‘it’ is—it’s the only thing Thorin ever talks about. 

Some stupid, pale rock that shines like the moon but corrupts all hearts. It got to Bilbo, once. And he wishes he’d never done that; it wasn’t worth it. Even if Thorin had still gone mad, at least it would be with Bilbo at his side; he’d still _trust_ Bilbo, instead of stripping and leashing and lashing Bilbo, forcing him to kneel at his master’s side. The more Bilbo thinks of it, the more he wants to cry. They were growing so _close_ too, and he thought he’d actually meant something...

Against his better judgment, he mutters bitterly, “They won’t. I gave it away, and I told you that.”

“Liar,” Thorin roars. For a moment, Bilbo thinks the stalactites will come crashing down around them, the mountain shaking with Thorin’s wrath, or at least, Bilbo’s world is shaking. Thorin leans over his chiseled armrest to glare and snarl, “You’re a thief and a liar. It’s here. I know it’s here; you’ve hidden it from me, but I will find it.” He jerks the leash again, coils it tighter around his hand, and Bilbo’s dragged up on his knees, hands leaving the ground, lungs struggling for air as the collar chokes him. The heavy necklace weaving down his chest tries to weigh him back down, the interwoven loops of gold encircling his hips rustling as Bilbo quivers. He looks up at Thorin, his little fingers clawing at his throat, and for a moment, just a fraction of a second, he thinks he might see the real Thorin locked inside them. 

Dragon greed is a horrible thing. When Thorin does release Bilbo, it’s none too gently. He flicks more of the coiled chain over his armrest, and it smacks Bilbo in the side of the face, blunt but stinging. The release of pressure sends him falling back to the floor, where he lays on his side, pulling the collar as loose as he can and gulping in air. There’s no kindness in the way Thorin looks down at him. There’s a spot of hunger, just as violent as it is intimate, and Bilbo shivers and shuts his eyes. He used to _long_ for Thorin to look at him like that. When it finally started to happen, faint at first but there, he was so _honoured_ , and he’d wanted, as soon as there was time and they could sit and rest, to draw Thorin aside and to talk, not of this quest but other things. Who they were inside, what they wanted out of life, what little things made them smile. And to think he ever thought that he might see Thorin at Beg End again, blowing smoke rings and sitting by the fire. 

Now Bilbo’s sure he’ll never leave this mountain. He still isn’t worthy of a king, but he’s worth more than to be leered at like a meal. It takes a bit of effort, but he pushes himself up again, his bare legs curled in beneath him, thighs cut from where he’s been scraped against stone. The rest of him isn’t as tough as his feet, isn’t meant to be pushed around like this. He pushes his limp curls out of his eyes, then has to tuck a stray strand of pearls back behind his ear. When he looks at Thorin, Thorin is _smiling._ Apparently, abusing hobbits amuses him. Or rather, amuses what he’s become. 

Bilbo’s so sure Thorin’s still in there. He is. Bilbo crawls forward on hands and knees, because he isn’t allowed to stand, and he brings himself to Thorin’s feet. Thorin’s wearing enough for both of them: so many redundant layers of armour and finery and the tatters beneath from their journey. Thorin idly lifts one metal arm, drawing the chain with him to force Bilbo’s head to tilt forward, his chin lifting and his breath catching. He waits to be shoved aside again, but he isn’t. 

Thorin snorts and mutters to himself, “Halflings make better treasure than burglars.” Then he dons a lazy smirk and reaches down with one hand, fingers pushing into Bilbo’s hair. He looks like he thinks it a compliment, being elevated to the status of gold and gems. The way Thorin pets him now is fond, stroking back through his hair and carefully rearranging the trinkets that adorn his head. Bilbo would still rather be a friend than a possession. The sudden switch in tone only adds to the air of madness, and now, as Bilbo willingly arranges himself at Thorin’s feet, Thorin thumbs his cheek and curls strong fingers under his chin, the fire in his eyes building. Bilbo is no Arkenstone, but perhaps he can tide his master over until the real one arrives. 

Bilbo lifts his small hands to place on Thorin’s knees. Dwarves aren’t so tall as elves and men and even wizards, but now Thorin seems a giant to Bilbo, great and towering above. Bilbo can barely feel Thorin’s flesh beneath all the layers of coarse material and armour. “Thorin,” he murmurs, insistent but quiet, so as not to challenge the beast, “I miss the way you used to be.”

Thorin snorts. His grip on Bilbo’s face tightens, fingertips clawing into the skin of Bilbo’s throat, just between chin and collar. “I’m glad you adore me so, little one. You should be glad I am a merciful king, for now you get to stay with me forever.” His face is truly sick when he smiles. 

Bilbo has to wait for the grip on his windpipe to loosen, and then he breathes, “But not as... your friend.” Or more, like he might’ve hoped, once. Thorin looks at him carefully, studying his face, and Bilbo tries to silently implore Thorin to understand.

But Thorin only hisses, “As my prisoner.” With his other hand, his grip tightens around the makeshift leash, and Bilbo’s grateful that it at least doesn’t pull taut again. He wants to say that he didn’t know dwarves kept others like slaves—weren’t those for goblins and orcs and other things of evil?—but Thorin’s already elaborating, “You’re just another rare gem in my collection. No other in this land has a halfling at their feet.” Almost as an afterthought, Thorin thumbs at the diamonds he’s strung from Bilbo’s pointed ear. “Besides, you look good in my gold.” Bilbo wants to wrench his head away; he has no desire to be a treasure-stand.

Yet, there’s something so alluring in having Thorin look at him like this. He can’t ignore that. It makes him warm, where the metals around him make him cold. Bilbo licks his lips and tries again, head leaning into Thorin’s touch, cheek brushing Thorin’s palm like he _wants_ this. “You could still have me, Thorin Oakenshield. I would wear these for you. I would wear nothing else, if you wanted, when we were alone—” For now, Bilbo constantly worries about that, though the other dwarves are kind to look away when they approach the throne, nearly as embarrassed as Bilbo is. Balin is the only one who still holds up his head, and even then, it’s only to glare at Thorin. Briefly closing his eyes to forget the pain of that humiliation, Bilbo presses on, “But you must _stop_ this. You must see that what you’re doing is wrong, hoarding all this wealth for yourself and denying the men and the elves, and treating me like this...” He’s quiet, in the end, so as not to anger his king. 

It works too well. Thorin seems not to hear any of it and only hisses, “I treat you like the pretty thing you are, Bilbo Baggins. You betray me, and still I let you live. I dress you in my most impressive jewelry, and I let you warm the spot at your king’s feet.” Then he leans in a fraction, his legs parting in Bilbo’s hands, as though to suck Bilbo in, and Bilbo holds his breath as Thorin growls, “Perhaps, if you are a good little hobbit, you may even redeem yourself enough to warm my bed...”

A small, very small part of Bilbo, considers giving in. He could behave. He’s gone through hell and back on this journey, and it seems unlikely he’ll ever make it back to the Shire alone; perhaps it would be best or at least easier to stay here. To do as Thorin asks; content himself to be the toy of a powerful king. If it’s the only way he can have Thorin look at him again with any sort of affection, maybe it would be worth it. He does _want_ to warm Thorin’s bed, very badly, and he’ll still like it if Thorin chains his wrists to the frame and turns him around and only takes him harshly. Perhaps he could even come to accept riding his master in the great dwarven throne, if it would bring them closer. 

But the rest of him wretches at the idea of losing Thorin to madness. The burden weighs him down hard enough to make his eyes water around the edges, and he ducks his head with his sadness. His cheek slips from Thorin’s fingers, and Bilbo leans his head on Thorin’s knee, slumping forward against Thorin’s legs. He mumbles, mostly to himself, “You treat me no better than Smaug would have.”

Thorin snorts again. His hand returns to Bilbo’s hair, petting him like the dog he’s become. “Smaug would’ve eaten you alive, which is more than you deserve after your thievery.” Somehow, Thorin seems to have forgotten that that’s exactly what he hired Bilbo to do in the first place. “He was a cruel, self-aggrandized terror, who would’ve toyed with your mind before burning and violating your body. You would’ve died in the mountain without ever tasting the fresh air, ever...”

Bilbo waits, eyes closed against Thorin’s knee, for the awful tale of his own demise to continue, but it doesn’t. Thorin trails off, and Bilbo’s first worry is that someone else has come into the hall, ready to run up the steps and tell Thorin just where his precious Arkenstone’s gone. 

Bilbo lifts his head to check, eyes sweeping down the torch-lit patch, but he and Thorin are still alone. He looks back to Thorin and sees, just maybe, the faintest glint of the old Thorin in the new king’s eyes.

Perhaps it’s possible that his own descriptions have made him realize just what a monster he’s become. Bilbo seizes the chance, leaning over Thorin’s lap to plead, “See what the treasure’s done to you, Thorin. _Please_. This isn’t _you_. See the light again...”

Confliction passes over Thorin’s face before he seethes, “Why should I change anything? I finally have everything I want. My rightful kingdom, my treasure, even a halfling for a pet.”

This, Bilbo thinks, might be an opening. He climbs back to his feet, very slowly, so as not to startle his master and be yanked back down. It’s almost hard to stand, after kneeling and sitting so long, but he’s only up long enough to stumble forward, lift his little knees over Thorin’s great ones, slide his bare thighs along Thorin’s lap, his bejeweled loin cloth making tiny, clinking sounds as it moves along Thorin’s armour. Bilbo settles himself down in Thorin’s lap, and Thorin, for once, allows him this freedom. The grip on the chain is even loosened enough for it to fall smoothly down the middle of Bilbo’s chest, hanging away from his skin when he ducks his head forward, the collar hard and cold against the back of his neck. Bilbo places his hands on Thorin’s lap but slides them, still so very gradually and carefully, up the shining metal stretched over Thorin’s stomach. He makes his way up Thorin’s breast, past the dusty cape of old, and onto Thorin’s broad shoulders. The sides of Thorin’s beard brush over his wrists, lined in gold bracelets and bands, and the back of his fingers rest against Thorin’s dark hair. He looks hard into Thorin’s eyes, holds the intimidating, blazing gaze, and whispers, “You could have so much _more_ than a pet, if you could only see what I’m telling you.”

For a long while, Thorin just looks back at him, searching his eyes, the two of them so close that Bilbo begins to grow hot, especially with his legs spread around Thorin’s crotch. Even with so many layers between them, he feels naked and exposed and mostly is, and eventually, he gives in and drops his gaze away. His hands fall back down Thorin’s chest; he feels like he failed. He thought he saw _something_ in those eyes, but the truth is that the Thorin he loved is gone, and the new one sees him as little more than a plaything.

Thorin’s fingers reach for Bilbo’s collar. They trace along it, idly feeling the physical proof that Bilbo now _belongs_ to Thorin. Thorin always owned him, in a sense, but now it’s branded against his flesh for all the world to see. 

Then Thorin’s hands drop around Bilbo’s sides, lightly trace his waist enough to make him tremble and gasp, wanting to moan Thorin’s name. Those strong, thick arms reach around him, hot like the fire Thorin threatened would violate his body. Bilbo’s pulled in closer, tighter, squished up against Thorin’s armour, his shoulders lifting and his face burying in Thorin’s wide neck. Thorin’s embrace is stifling, and it lasts for a long, long time. 

When Thorin does loosen his arms, Bilbo doesn’t want it to end. He still clings tightly around Thorin’s neck, wanting to cry. Thorin was such a great man. 

Thorin has to pull Bilbo gently away, tugging loosely at his honey locks and untangling his arms. Set again with enough distance between them to breathe, Bilbo still squirming in Thorin’s lap, Thorin holds Bilbo by the hips and looks him in the eye. 

Bilbo breathes, “Thorin,” and Thorin ducks his head, pressing his forehead into Bilbo’s. Bilbo winces at the first contact, hard as dwarven skulls are, but then he’s nearly crying in relief. His cheeks might be growing moist. He braces himself against Thorin’s chest so he doesn’t melt away. 

Thorin murmurs, “I am so, so sorry, my Bilbo.” Not master Baggins, not burglar. The pain in Thorin’s voice is bittersweet, the sincerity overwhelming. There’s a tremor in it, and when Bilbo pulls away, he sees it’s because Thorin’s also on the verge of tears. 

Bilbo lifts to kiss them away, sighing, “ _Welcome back._ ”


End file.
